


Shadows.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Betrayal, Hurt Sam Winchester, Introspection, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean won't add to the betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> Season 9 spoilers. I couldn't help wondering what exactly Dean was going to do about their intimacy whilst he knows Ezekiel's on a ride along...

Sam doesn’t understand. There aren’t many things his big old brain can’t wrap itself round, he’s good with most anything that poses a problem. He’s never met an issue he hasn’t attacked like Attila-the-Hun.

But he _really_ doesn’t understand.

He’s pretty sure it’s not because he’s still healing.

Physically he’s good to go.

He may close his eyes at night and feel like someone’s slipped him a brown acid, drift off to sleep with the perpetual fear of falling fluttering behind his eyes, but physically there’s nothing wrong with him.

So it’s not fear of him getting hurt.

It’s not because of a lack of want or need.

He’s spotted the sidelong glances, felt the hard lines resting against the curve of his ass first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

It’s not a lack of physical attraction.

So why won’t Dean touch him?

There are still steadying hands at the base of his spine when he walks, long lazy cuddles in front of bad motel tv.

Dean still squeezes Sam’s ass when he thinks no one’s looking and gives a cheeky grin; tongue between his teeth, eyebrows in his hairline, almost imperceptible curve of the lips.

His brother will crawl in behind him, throw a strong arm over his shoulder, play big spoon to Sam’s small one, which up until now the younger of the two Winchesters has never realised how silly that is, seen as he’s three inches taller than Dean.

The sleep Dean gets is fitful at best, full of night terrors at worst. He allows Sam to curl round him, his little brother’s heat and weight chasing away whatever’s tormenting his subconscious.

But Dean won’t _touch_ him.

Sam creeps across the room towards Dean, tries stealth instead of head on attack for once.

He’s got a hand on a shoulder and is about to slip it below the collar of his brother’s shirt when Dean jumps half way out of his skin.

“Jesus Sammy, give a guy a warning would you!”

Underneath the brash admonition and raised eyebrows is a deep seated disappointment that Sam could see with his eyes glued shut. He knows his brother well enough to know when he’s hiding something and Sam’s automatic reaction is one of panic. 

What if he’s finally had enough of the fucked up that is their crazy assed relationship? Maybe eight years was enough of an experiment and Dean wants to go back to being _normal_.

No, that’s not possible. Dean still gropes him in public and makes lude suggestions when Sam’s meant to be interrogating witnesses, so there’s no way he’s ‘come to his senses’.

Then what?

The spectre of a colourless shadow just out of Sam’s line of sight keeps looming large and unfocused, making him feel like he’s drowning and has no idea how to break the surface.

He gets moments of complete airlessness. His lungs contract and a panic so profound he daren’t put a name to it grips his heart and squeezes.

Watching Dean struggle for yet another excuse not to let him within intimate touching distance, Sam’s overcome by a sense of loss and hopelessness so engulfing that he can’t stop the question tumbling from his lips, “What _is_ your problem De, did I do something, or are you...are we not...what’s wrong?”

_Oh god Oh god Oh god_.

As Dean tries not to let the fear of being found out show on his face, he realises they _really_ need another deity to blaspheme about. 

He’s rapidly running out of plausible ways to forestall Sam’s thirst for all things **Dean** and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to just bundle his little brother against the car and ride him ‘til he walks with a limp. 

But he just can’t do it, he can’t share that part of them with the grounded angel riding shotgun. Especially not when Sam has no clue he’s got celestial cooties. 

It’s not fear of discovery; every angel in a five mile radius must have caught their scent mid-fuck for the last god knows how many years, so it isn’t the ‘Outing of Winchesters’ to the wingless brigade that’s keeping Dean from taking what’s always been his.

It’s not shame either; the innate wrongness that used to pick at Dean’s conscience disappeared the day he had to carry Sammy’s lifeless body back to the Impala. Despite what anyone else might think, there’s a sense of ‘home’ in Sam’s arms and he doesn’t care what that makes him or how many tickets downstairs it buys them both.

It’s simply that Sam is no longer alone in his head.

He may not be able to feel Ezekiel’s essence encircling his own, but Dean knows he’s there, just off to the side, never rearing his head but sharing _everything_.

Those too few sweet hours spent touching, tasting and remembering belong to Sam and him, no one else.

Ezekiel is somewhere inside Sammy, watching, taking it all in, enjoying what he enjoys, feeling what he feels. Dean’s never going to be sure if it’s his brother or his heavenly co-pilot responding to the battle hewn hands stretching across heated flesh.

It’s bad enough he’s just poured gasoline on everything they promised each other in that church. Sam may not know it yet but it’s all gone up in a cloud of smoke dense enough to choke them both in their sleep. 

Dean won’t add to the deception, to the betrayal, by sharing a part of himself that only Sam has ever seen, with another creature, whether that creature is trying to help or not.

Watching Sam try and puzzle out what’s turned Dean into an iceberg is heart breaking but the thought of giving a piece of himself over to the angel he’s already given more than he had any right to hand away, makes him want to throw up.

Sighing and pasting a bright smile on his face, Dean steps towards Sam, lays a hand on his arm and squeezes, “Nothing man, nothing’s wrong. Just tired is all. Been a long year, it’s all catching up.”

It’s a lie, they both know it, but Sam’s not brave enough to push and Dean’s too much of a coward to tell him the truth, not when the answers might shatter everything they thought they’d _finally_ fixed.


End file.
